


sic transit gloria

by snugglepup



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Quadrant Confusion, Repression, Sadstuck, Trauma, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1871619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snugglepup/pseuds/snugglepup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You feel it in the air between you, eventually, the way that even when nobody else is around she doesn't smile how she used to: now she sniffs at you like just smelling you is a personal insult, like she's always one more snide remark away from unsheathing her cane-sword and doing a lot worse to you than she did to Vriska.</p><p>But you really don't see the apex coming and when it hits, it hits like a meteor come screaming out of skies that were stormy and gray, sure, but definitely didn't look like they were about to drop a giant hunk of molten rock on your head. Probably you've just been too caught up in stoking the fire to actually see how large it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sic transit gloria

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty fucked up! You should go over those tags again and make sure you're okay with reading.

_you don't recover from a night like this_

_a victim still lying in bed completely motionless_

_a hand moves in the dark to a zipper_

_hear a boy bracing tight against sheets barely whisper_

_"this... is... so... messed... up."_

_brand new - sic transit gloria... glory fades_

* * *

 

There's been a major fucking issue going on around here. You're not talking about the stupid way Lalonde and Kanaya are taking about a thousand sweeps to just make it official already when everybody knows they're flushed for each other, or even the fact that holy shit, you filled a quadrant and it was amazing and for once in your life you did something right... and now he doesn't give half a shit, just crawls in vents like a creep, disappears for hundreds of hours at a time, barely talks to you at all and sure as _fuck_ doesn't listen.

No, the issue is the constant ridiculous bickering going on between Dave, Terezi, and yourself. Which is really your own fault, because you're the asshole who got possessive about somebody he wasn't even in a quadrant with and sort of forgot for a while that she is, in fact, her own person, and cape-wrestling an alien 'over her' like the two of you were wrigglers fighting for the same scrap of food was a really shitty and fucked up thing to do.

Obviously that crap calmed down, but it's been a while now and your constant escalating and not actually Pyrope-related feud with Strider (although sometimes you wonder if the both of you aren't still trying to fight over her on some level, and it grosses you out and you don't know what to do about it) is completely pointless because you don't even hate him like that and his species doesn't even _do_ blackrom. Unfortunately, pointless or not, it just keeps happening.

Except it starts becoming less pointless and more vicious, because you've started to notice something: a certain tealblood is getting seriously fed up with your shit, and when it's obvious that you, specifically, are again the instigator of whatever stupid fight is going on, she gets more and more bitter and spiteful and somehow has both more and less to say to you. It almost gets to the point of feeling like hateflirtation, the way she tears you down and you spit venom back in her face.

So you make it worse on purpose. Because you're lonely, you're an asshole, and she is the most beautiful creature to grace the fucking universe with her presence. Because if the only way she could ever want to be with you is by hating you, well, maybe that's something that might happen. It goes on for perigees, picking more fights with Dave, being generally rude to both of them, dropping inappropriate comments all over the place, a slow build to pitch black.

You feel it in the air between you, eventually, the way that even when nobody else is around she doesn't smile how she used to: now she sniffs at you like just smelling you is a personal insult, like she's always one more snide remark away from unsheathing her cane-sword and doing a lot worse to you than she did to Vriska.

But you really don't see the apex coming and when it hits, it hits like a meteor come screaming out of skies that were stormy and gray, sure, but definitely didn't look like they were about to drop a giant hunk of molten rock on your head. Probably you've just been too caught up in stoking the fire to actually see how large it is.

"Okay, for fucking real, dude, I ain't even in the mood for your weak-ass burns," Strider says in response to... you don't even remember what, something shitty and stupid. "I'm tryin' to make some pop-tarts, okay? Tarts, at this exact second, are waiting to be popped. They have no _purpose_ in life but to be popped tartly and then consumed. Like, if you put your ear real close you can almost hear the fuckers beggin' for it."

"You'd know about goddamned begging, wouldn't you, with how hard you're angling for hearts with Terezi. I bet every time I'm not around you're on your knees trying to win her over with slam poetry and it is as embarrassing as it is fucking _shameless_." It takes you a few seconds to realize he isn't staring at you with an uncharacteristic lack of response, but staring at something over your shoulder.

You turn around just in time to be slapped in the face. She doesn't even say anything when you stagger back and glare, just waits until you're stable and then does it again, hard enough to leave your aural canals ringing and slice the inside of your lip open on your fangs. Then she grabs you by the shoulders, claws digging through your shirt and into flesh, and shoves her tongue into your mouth.

It's a blur how you get from there to her respiteblock, probably because every time you wrestle away from her and then strike back physically or verbally, she _thrashes_ you, and you're too busy trying to keep up to pay attention to much else.

She says some shit. It's probably clever and brutal just like the way she slams you down onto the floor, but all you're thinking about is your claws raking into her back and the fact that _holy shit this is actually happening_. You put up a good fight, you think, biting and punching and cursing and spitting out insults that'd put even the best hatesmut to shame as she literally rips through your clothing with her bare claws and you do the same to hers with a lot less fury and a lot more concentrating on making sure that you get this _right._

When it's obvious that she's winning, you physically depleted to the point that it's not wrestling any more so much as it's being pinned down, you don't stop reciprocating and you know you should be getting off on this _so hard it's not even funny_ but like with everything in your life, you're ruining all of that by overthinking things, trying to get this perfect, trying not to let her down, trying to act like you still think there's a chance that she isn't dominating the _fuck_ out of you. You get a hand on one of her bilesacks, small and teal-tipped and perfect, and knead it hard enough that you're sure it'll bruise, because that's what you _do_ in hatesex, you do everything hard and both of you hate each other and love every second of it.

But it doesn't feel so great, getting your ass kicked and feeling up your lifelong crush in a way that isn't actually happy the way you used to imagine it could be, that is in fact painful for her even though _she_ actually _is_ getting off on that, and that makes something go weird in your gut in a way you're pretty sure isn't typical for a situation like this.

Terezi, knowing she's won, knowing you know, gets hold of your bulge, which is definitely slick and unsheathed, pins it to your abdomen. There isn't going to be any romantic exchange of fluids here, tangling bulges, working into each other, whether it's pitch or not. You lost and that's fine because half the time in these situations _somebody_ has to, you think, and you're still here right now, naked with a blind girl who's killed more people than you've even met, just the way you always wanted.

Her bulge doesn't so much slither into you the way you thought they should so much as it slaps itself against your nook and then shoves itself in at a weird careless angle that hurts every bit as much as it feels amazing. And it feels amazing halfway because it hurts, because that's how this works, it's _good_ that it hurts, that means you actually _are_ doing some of this right, and you claw her face and she hisses and closes a hand around your throat, slowly crushing your oxygen processing tube even as you're trying to wrench her off with one arm. Meanwhile she's moaning and growling your name along with a lot of really hurtful shit that you don't even keep track of and your bulge is free now by necessity but there's really nothing for it to do but helplessly and automatically rub against her abdomen while _her_ bulge is smoothing out and pressing forward, rippling and pushing aside wet inner walls to reach deeper inside of you than anything else ever has.

When you finally claw her and batter her arm enough, she lets go of your throat and you wheeze for breath, black and silver lights flashing around the edges of your sight, and that was hot, you've read a ton of blackrom smut with choking in it and it was always hot as hell so that was totally hot.

You manage to get a hand on your own bulge, massaging it desperately to move toward some sort of release, and she lets you, mostly because she's too busy pulsing deep up in your nook, body stiffening and losing coordination from the rapid approach of her big finish. When her bulge finally forces your seedflap open it's supposed to feel good, feel incredible, blackrom or not, you know that's just how it works, but it's new and it's rough and the soft little spines all along her length feel so fucked up grinding through that small opening as more and more inches of her press through into your gene sac.

Her climax seems like it lasts forever, wave after wave of cool slurry pumping in, filling you, mixing with your own material, and you try to match up the timing, shutting your eyes hard and working your bulge, squeezing base to tip with pressure in all the places that you know will get you off the fastest, until finally terrible and fantastic shocks are moving through your whole body and turning your bulge into something like a small crimson sun. It's nothing like any orgasm you've had before.

And then eternity folds back into reality as she pulls out of you. You wince and then try not to visibly shudder with relief when the feeling of the last few inches of her coming back out of your gene sac stops, and again when she's retracted all the way out of your nook. There are huge dripping splatters of your slurry all over you and all over Terezi, and you can't quite tell how much of the red you're seeing is genetic material and how much is your blood. She slumps down and lies on top of you, exhausted.

" _I hate you so fucking much_ ," she hisses, and you know how much she means it.

"I hate you too," you say, and stare at the ceiling, cold metal, featureless and gray.

It actually takes you a minute or two to realize that she's fallen asleep, and you look at her, Terezi, who's maybe yours now or really maybe now you're _hers_. Even like this she's still beautiful, her face no less perfect for the gashes you left in her cheek. You reach out hesitantly, carefully, to stroke her hair, but your fingers stop just half an inch short. For some reason you can't make them go any farther.

She's out fucking cold and doesn't even notice when you wriggle out from under her. You gather up your ruined clothes, not really thinking clearly, and somehow manage to find your own respiteblock without running into anyone else while you're still naked. The ablution trap is the first place you go, because god fucking damn are you sticky, and you run the water hot enough to feel like it's burning you even though the temperature is really just riding the white-blazing edge just below anything that could actually injure you.

You're almost done drying off when you think, suddenly, about her face when she used to smile, all of that gleeful and wicked fang, and then her face asleep on your chest and bleeding from your claws, and then the way it felt when she pushed into you, how you hurt her back mechanically, with as much calculation as you could manage because if you fucked this up you would never be able to live with yourself. How her bulge felt as it held your seedflap wide open. How you feel right now, abdomen sort of heavy, gene sac fuller than it's ever been, full of her.

It's not the first time you've spent half an hour crying while throwing up into your load gaper, and it's not really any different than all the other times in your life. It's really not. You just fucked up and now you're paying the price. Everything went just how you wanted it, everything was perfect, you made real fucking sure of that, and it still wasn't right. _You_ still weren't right _._

For some reason all you can think about now is how this isn't something you can ever take back. You flipped on her all the time, you thought, flushed to pitch and back again, but now you're not so sure you know what real hate feels like.

What you do know is what _someone else's_ real hate feels like.

It's an hour later, after you empty your gene sac into a bucket and then pour it all down the gaper because it's not like there are drones around to give a shit, that you start to feel okay about everything. Sure, you fucked up, but when don't you? It's just one more thing to hate yourself for: the time the most amazing troll in the world pailed you and you didn't really even enjoy yourself.

In the 'coon you find yourself staring again at the ceiling that's the same in just about every room on the meteor. Inside of you everything is red the way it always has been, you know that's the truth, but it wouldn't be so hard to convince yourself that your veins run without hue.

You fall asleep slow, locking yourself away in the bubble you've learned to make into a near-perfect copy of your old hive, and in that hive there's just Karkat Vantas and the story of how he fucked up so badly he couldn't even figure out how to be happy while _pailing Terezi motherfucking Pyrope_. There's no teal or red or black here any more, no hearts, no spades.

All that surrounds you is shades of gray, and it's obvious that that behind the colors that paint the world, whether the waking or the dreaming sort, there's really only that same gray, the same thing wherever you look.

No matter how candy red your blood and slurry might be, everything inside of you is the very same gray as everything else, and you have no idea why it took you so long to notice.

 

* * *

 

_the tickle, the taste of_

_it used to be the reason i breathed_

_but now it's choking me up_

_die young and save yourself._

_brand new - sic transit gloria... glory fades_


End file.
